White Picket Fences
by HX9
Summary: A psychotic force is out for blood and drastically threatens Eames and Goren. Reposted and edited.
1. Situation Critical

**Tagline:**  
Everyone has to climb their white picket fence.

**Notes: **  
Set after Season 3, post "Unrequited," but before Season 5  
No Major Spoilers  
Minor Character Death  
Not Beta'd

**Disclaimer:**  
No credit was assumed for any of the characters, whether major or minor, from the _Law & Order: Criminal Intent_ television series.  
The author takes credit for any of the personalities not designated to the _Law & Order: Criminal Intent_ television series.  
The following story is fictional and does not represent any actual person or event.

**Author's Message:  
**What would happen if the strong Eames/Goren friendship was seriously tested by a psychotic force which threatens to rip them apart?  
Well, let's find out.  
Happy Readings.

* * *

Detective Robert "Bobby" Goren walked into the large building commonly known as One Police Plaza around eight-thirty on a cool Thursday morning. It was a bustling November day, the wind at that point where it slightly stings a person's exposed cheeks as it brushed by, and if Goren excluded the mound of files he had rummaged through for the Hatcher Case it was a beautiful day. He entered the building, his six-foot-four frame managing to not hit the doorframe as he went in, and took roughly ten to twelve long strides to reach the elevator. He was joined by another two people, both of which were in deep conversations on their cell phones, and as he hit the eleventh floor button the two men hit the third and seventh floors.

The ride was one full of more stops than Goren was used to, seeing that when he usually came in he either had the elevator to himself or he was sharing it with his partner. He wondered how her date had gone last night. She had seemed eager about it before she left, and Goren had been happy for her. He glanced at his watch to check the time. It was two till half past. The elevator lurched to a stop on the third floor, and one of the men stepped out, he still jabbing on his phone about swabs.

The other man was in a more normal conversation, discussing curtains and colors, and Goren figured he was moving in with the wife and that they were having a debate about the color scheme for the family room. As the man stepped out on the seventh floor, he heard the man say, "honey," verifying the detective's observations. For the next three floors Goren rode in silence, and he wondered if Eames would be there. He could tell how well the night had been for her by when she came in. If it was a very bad date, she would already be at her desk when he arrived. If it was fairly good she would be skipping into the squad room no later than nine o'clock. If it had been reasonable she would swagger in some time between eight-thirty and eight-forty like always.

The doors opened and Goren stepped out onto the Major Case floor, his eyes scanning the room. His desk was still covered in files, but his partner had yet to show herself. It was exactly eight-thirty, right on time.

He walked over to his desk and took off his coat, laying it across the back of his chair and sitting down, and he took a pen in his left hand and opened Gavin Hatcher's file. He found that he only had a few more parts to fill out before he could turn the file over to Carver and await the People versus Hatcher trial. After discovering his train of though from yesterday, he quickly began to finish his report.

At eight-forty Goren glanced at the clock and then at the elevator. Eames had not shown herself, and he smiled, thinking of the large grin that would be on her face when she came into work at nine. He returned to his work.

Once nine o'clock came around he looked to see that his partner had not arrived yet, something very unusual about her schedule. She rarely called in sick, and when she did she would call him first before calling their captain, and she would call no later than eight-forty-five. Goren decided that she had become trapped in traffic and would come bounding in at any moment with a sharp remark ready to greet him with. So he continued with his papers.

He completed his subsequent reports on Hatcher by ten after, and Eames was no where to be found. A nagging feeling was cramping in his stomach, and he rose to see his captain. He knocked firmly on the office door and peered through the window to see his Deakins ushering him inside. He opened the door and entered.

"Sir, has Eames called you?" he asked.

"No, Goren, should she have?" Deakins removed the wire-framed glasses from his face and folded them in one hand. Goren took another step forward, his hands clasped behind him. He did this to keep his hands from flying about and to hide his nerves.

"It's just that, well, she's not here, and she hasn't called," he replied. He watched Deakins as he picked up his phone and dialed Eames' cell phone. Both men waited in dead silence with set faces, Deakins' eyes on his detective and Goren's on the office phone.

"She's not answering," said Deakins, hanging up the phone. "Why don't you wait a few minutes and try again, okay?"

Goren nodded, trying to ignore that feeling in his gut. "Yes, sir. Sorry to bother you."

Goren left the office and returned to his desk to see that his partner was still not there, and seeing that he did not want to do paperwork without her there to help ease the pain, he chose to wait for her. He drummed on his desk, fumbled through his drawers, checked his pens, but after ten minutes she still was not sitting in front of him. He picked up his phone and dialed her cell phone, he rubbing the back of his neck to preoccupy himself.

"_The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable—_"

He set the phone back on the receiver and dialed her apartment, a number he remembered but barely used. It began ringing, but after the fourth ring he concluded she was not their either. Hanging up the phone he fiddled with his fingers, tracing his fingerprints with the end of a pen, and tried to entertain himself for another ten minutes. By minute six he was dialing her numbers again, receiving the same message and constant ringing.

Something was not right about Eames not being there, and nine-thirty was exceptionally late for her to be coming in. Goren took one of the pictures from her desk and looked at it. It was a picture of her beloved young nephew, Ioan Lú Braverman. He remembered when his partner had put the picture in that very frame and how excited she was about him. There were always pictures of him on her phone, and whenever she went to see him she would always return beaming.

Goren replaced the picture on her desk and took the paper from his zippered notebook, pulling out the crossword puzzle and grabbing a pen. Filling out all the across words he looked at the clock again and fought the urge to try and call her again, even though it was a quarter till ten. He reverted back to his crossword and completed the down words. It was ten o'clock when he called her numbers once more.

When the same message and the monotonous rings reached his ears, he rose quickly and approached Deakins' office again, knocking loudly. Deakins met his eyes and Goren entered, he not trying to hide the nervous feeling twisting his insides into knots. His hands were unusually still, and Deakins rose from his desk as Goren closed the door.

"Any luck?" asked the captain.

"No, sir," said Goren disappointedly. Deakins looked at his phone and then at his detective, slipping his hands in his pockets, and sighed.

"Go see about her." Goren nodded and swiftly left the office. He grabbed his coat and half-walked half-jogged to the elevator and hit the down button. He bounced on the balls of his feet in impatience, his eyes focused on the grey above the elevator doors. The doors opened and he stepped inside, quickly hitting the first floor button and then the close-door button. As the doors closed he heard a cry in the back of his mind, one he thought he had completely imagined but one that sounded like Eames.

---

Detective Alexandra "Alex" Eames woke up feeling extremely groggy and did not know why. It was six-thirty in the morning, and she had to get ready for work. Moaning at her beeping alarm, she untangled her legs from her sheets and slammed a hand onto her clock with a quiet verbal flare of curses as she made her way to her shower. She turned on the warm water and shed her clothes, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She did not feel wasted, but after catching seven continuous hours of sleep she appeared that way. Her hair was disheveled and there was a lot of dried sleep caught in her eyelashes.

She stepped into the shower to find the water amazingly cold, and she nearly slipped on her shampoo bottle on the floor as she shrieked and jumped back. She was awake then, and now very agitated. The water in her building had been acting up the past few weeks, and the superintendent had not gotten around to fixing it. The tenants in the building did not pay an extra fifteen dollars a month to have ice water shooting at them in the shower.

Eames turned the water as far to the left as it would go, but the water was only lukewarm, and barely at that. She decided that it was either that or no shower at all, and the alternative was definitely not an option. She quickly showered and shaved, very proud of herself for not nicking her legs, and she exited her shower and grabbed a towel from the rack. Wrapping it around her small body she used a dry cloth to wipe the little condensation from her mirror. It was fairly chilly inside her apartment because her floor had lost their heat. Again a problem an extra fifteen dollars should fix.

Once dry, except her hair, she meandered to her bedroom and picked out one of her usual business suits to wear to the station. She entered her bathroom almost completely dressed, her jacket for the suit still lying on her unmade bed. Drying her hair and applying the little bit of make-up she did wear only took her about fifteen minutes, and she replaced her towel on the rack and turned out the light. Her alarm was beeping again, and she angrily clicked the alarm off. She cursed whoever decided that a loud beeping noise was perfect for waking up people, but kept her language to a low whisper. Picking up her badge and gun she clipped them to her waist. Her clock told her it was seven-twenty, and she began making her bed and reflecting on last nights events.

Her current attraction lay with a local store owner's son named Levi Littman. He was only two years her senior, which worked out nicely. He was currently enrolled in Atlantic Eastern College studying to be a doctor, and she did have to admit he was _very_ good with his hands. She grinned at the thought, but buried it behind other memories from the previous night. They had been seeing each other for a few months, she taking her time and the two of them only becoming physical twice. But he was becoming very possessive of her, and in her mind he was dehumanizing her. That night she had decided to call the relation off, and they did it over a movie. It had not been a very good movie in her opinion since it was more like a soap opera that a movie, but she had gritted her teeth and taken it. Afterwards she finally told him it was over, that their relation was only one-sided, and Levi had seemed angered by her. He had tried to act threatening but she ended up laughing at him, thinking of all the bad-boys she had locked up and seeing how pathetic he was. She had left him at the movie theatre and gone to her apartment.

Basically this was a come-in-early day.

She completed her task of making her bed and slipped on her jacket, fixing the collar as she walked out of her room and into the kitchen. She grabbed her handbag and keys and opted to grab breakfast on her way to work. Slipping on her coat and moving her badge from her waist to her coat, she brushed her hair from her face and had opened her door to see someone standing there. He was a tall man, around five-foot-ten, with hard dark eyes, brown hair, and a jutting chin. His lips were thin and pale, has face long and heart-shaped, and his slightly prominent brow was decorated with dark eyebrows and a scar.

"Levi?"

The man took a step towards her and pressed something to her face, a cloth with no smell. Eames automatically screamed but it came out in a low muffle, her body feeling weak. Her arms did not want to claw at the man in front of her, nor did her feet want to kick the man in the shin or groin. Instead she slumped into his arms, unconscious.

---

When the Major Case Squad SUV pulled up at Eames' apartment there were at least twenty-thousand different warnings buzzing in Goren's mind. He parked the Mercury Mountaineer and walked up to the front of the building, pressing the button next to _Eames, A_. He did not lift his finger for roughly thirty seconds before he released, but no one responded or buzzed him in. But then again, Eames would never just buzz someone in without knowing who they were, and he was no exception. Yet there was nothing, no phone calls or messages telling him she was ill and not coming into work. The idea of her playing hooky was a definite wash-out, for Eames never did that.

The wind bit at his ears and he wrapped his scarf higher to protect them from the elements. He waited another few moments before hitting the buzzer again, but after he let go and stepped back there was nothing. His finger found the superintendent's button and he buzzed it quickly, hoping for a response. Luckily he got one.

"_Who the hell is this?_" said a gruff man's voice.

Goren cleared his throat. "Police. I'm Detective Goren. I'm looking for someone."

"_Yeah, who?_"

"Alex Eames."

"_Hey, wait a minute, she's a cop. What the hell?_" Goren borrowed his partner's infamous eye-roll and hit the system once more.

"I'm her partner. Can you let me in?"

"_Hell no! Make her—_"

"Sir, no one is responding. Please let me in?"

There was a pause, one that Goren thought lasted for longer than five seconds, but the superintendent buzzed him in, and he entered the building. Once inside he lowered his scarf from his ears and heard heavy footsteps coming towards him. A short and rather stout man approached him, armed with a receding hair line and wispy grey hair. His small eyes were a dull grey and his nose was round and flat. Goren's first thought was that Eames had to feel like a giant when compared to this man.

"What the hell is this about?" barked the superintendent.

"You're Colin Portis, correct?" asked Goren, his hand motioning to the short man before him. The man sighed heavily.

"Yeah, that's me. What'd she do, buy the wrong kind of donuts or somethin'?" chuckled Portis. Goren could tell he was really getting a kick out of his own joke and was sure Eames would have spouted something crafty back at him. But Eames was not there, therein lied the problem.

"Sir, Detective Eames didn't show up for work this morning," explained Goren. "I was wondering if you could lead me to her apartment."

"Wait, don't you need a warren or somethin'?"

"Sir, it's a 'warrant', and no, I don't need one," said Goren. He pointed to the badge clipped to his coat. "I'm authorized."

"Fine, okay, whatever," groaned Portis, and Goren followed him to Eames' apartment. Even though Goren knew exactly where it was, he was only being hospitable to the superintendent of the building. And being hospitable meant having to listen to his complaining about his partner.

"That Eames gal, she's one bossy lady. Always comin' in and complainin' about somethin' ain't right, like the water's never hot or the roof's leakin' or somethin'. She ever that way to you?"

"No, not really," said Goren. He did have to admit, Eames had a way with people.

"Oh, figures you'd say somethin' like that." Portis turned to Goren and lowered his voice to a whisper. "She's one sexy little piece of ass, ain't she?"

Goren walked passed the man and approached Eames' apartment. "I'll pretend I didn't hear you say that. This is it, right? Thirty-four-B?"

"Yep, that's the one," said Portis, taking his keys from his pocket and knocking on the door with a loud bang. "Bet it's her bra size too—Yo, Eames! You in there? I'm openin' the door!"

Even though the man's actions and thoughts were primitive in Goren's point of view, at least he had the decency of knocking, if that one thunderous sound could be called a knock. Portis finally gripped his stubby fingers around a key and stuck it in the lock, opening the door and venturing a step inside. Goren reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

"I think I'll go in alone, thanks," he said.

"You sure? What if you need up-back, I know she can get pretty wild," warned Portis.

Goren grinned. "It's 'back-up', and no, I think I can handle her myself." As Goren entered his partner's apartment he heard Portis make a comment about how some people had all the luck. Goren turned on a light, and her apartment lit up. She was much neater at home than she was at work, he knew, but there were glasses in the sink and newspapers from up to three days ago lying on her table from where she had not been able to read them. But the apartment was rather quiet.

"Eames?" called Goren. He walked to her small den and clicked on a lamp. A large dark blue afghan was wadded on the couch, and there was a glass half-full of water sitting on a costar. A copy of Frankenstein was sitting beside the glass, and he smiled. He had let her borrow it. From where the bookmark was placed she was three-fourths of the way through it. He turned to the bedroom, where the door was closed.

"Eames, you here?"

"Uh, you sure you don't need me?" came Portis' voice from the hallway.

"I'm sure, sir," said Goren. He traveled to her door and knocked, his ear almost touching the door. "Eames?"

He knocked again and the door creaked as it opened slightly. Goren placed a hand on the door and pushed it open, finding the shades down and the lights off. He felt around for a switch, finding one on his left and flipping it up. Her bed was made and her room tidy, but lying on the pillow was a lock of hair on top of a piece of paper.

_What's going on, Eames?_, thought Goren. The tightening of his stomach increased into a silent ache, and he strode towards her bed. The lock was sitting in the middle of the paper, a message scribbled in fast black pen. It took him a moment to read what it said, but once he did the words bounced inside his head.

_**We have her. We'll call you.**_

Goren took his phone from his side and speed dialed the precinct, hoping that Deakins was at his desk. It rang twice before someone answered.

"_James Deakins, Major Case._"

"Sir, it's Goren. Eames isn't in her apartment, but there's a note. She's been abducted, sir." Goren spoke with shaky words, something uncharacteristic of his usual charisma.

There was an empty silence on the other line, but Deakins responded. "_CSU is on the way. Stay put and work your magic._"

"Yes, sir." Goren shut his phone and replaced it at his side. He retreated from the bedroom and turned to find Portis standing in her kitchen about to open a cabinet. Goren rushed to him and grabbed the man's wrist.

"Shit! What the—"

"Sir, I'm sorry, but you'll have to step outside."

"Fuck you—"

"Sir, this is a crime scene," snapped Goren. Portis seemed to understand that. "Now, if you would kindly walk into the hall so I can ask you some questions…"


	2. Jammed Gears

Within the hour the CSU team was swarming through Eames' apartment like bees in a beehive, buzzing about in a kind of organized panic. Some of the tenants who were still in the building had wandered into the hall to see what all the commotion was, and most were surprised that the cops were searching a cop's place. Goren was speaking to Portis, hoping the man had noticed something other than his partner's physique.

"Nah, she's a good tenant. Yeah, she can be bossy sometimes, but usually she don't bother nobody," said Portis.

Goren pretended to be jotting down the man's responses, but in reality he was doodling on his pad, his mind acting sluggish without his partner's smart asides to help jump start his brain. Portis seemed to have little to say about the entire ordeal, but Goren knew he had to make the man think he was a big help in their—no, _his—_investigation.

"Did she complain about someone bothering her, express anything that seemed suspicious?" asked the detective.

Portis jiggled his keys in his stubby fingers. "Not to me. Then again, she never told me somethin' unless it was about the buildin'." Portis seemed almost shocked, with his red skin looking very pale.

"Sir?" inquired Goren. "Are you all right?"

"Nah. This buildin's gonna be the stock of the town…" Portis wandered away, headed for the stairs.

Goren spun around to look into Eames' apartment, feeling very disoriented without her at his side. He approached a lead CSU, Max Tyler, and grabbed his attention with two taps in the shoulder. The CSU turned, his grim features and hollowed blue eyes not lifting the detective's spirits.

"Anything?" asked Goren.

Tyler shook his head. "Not yet. But if there's anything, _anything_, we'll find it."

The CSU returned to supervising the crime scene, something Goren was having a difficult time calling his partner's apartment. The detective proceeded to interview some of the other tenants, all of which were equally as upset about the police in their building as they were upset that one of their neighbors had gone missing right under their noses. Most had nothing to offer, with a few giving inconclusive details about how Eames had faked it. By then Goren's pad was covered in black doodles, but he did have a couple of notes written down amongst the swirls and squares.

Who caught the detective's attention rather quickly was a young boy who was staring at the crime tape in disbelief. He was elementary school age, with shaggy blonde hair and bright green eyes. He was dressed in his night clothes, those consisting of black pants and a dark green shirt. Goren approached the child, crouching down and offering the child his hand.

"Hey there," he said. The boy shook the detective's hand. "And what's your name?"

"Robby, Robby Lee Percival."

"Robby, huh?" said Goren. "I'm Detective Goren. Listen, can I ask you some questions?"

The boy's eyes were focused on the yellow tape around Eames' apartment. "What happened to Ms. Eames?" His tone was a direct representation of how Goren felt: lost.

"Well, Robby, that's what I'm trying to find out. Say, why aren't you in school?"

Robby's eyes turned to Goren. "I have a fever," he said. He took the detective's hand and rested it on his forehead. It was hot to the touch.

"I'm sorry, Robby. I hope you feel better," replied Goren.

"Mommy called a doctor to come see me," explained the child. "She's a teacher at NYU. Dr. Littman came and saw me this morning."

Two of the jammed gears in Goren's mind began to warm up as the child spoke. That name was familiar for some reason, but he just could not recall why. He knew that if Eames was there she would have reminded him in an instant.

"He had left his stealthy-scope in the den, and I went to give it to him," continued Robby. "He was in Ms. Eames' room. He said she was sick and needed his help."

"Really?" questioned Goren. He tore off his doodle page and stuffed it in his pocket, jotting down notes with his left hand.

"Yessir. He said she wasn't feeling good, and he thanked me for giving him his stealthy-scope."

Goren looked up at the boy. "A stethoscope?"

"Yessir, a stealthy-scope."

"Could you describe what Dr. Littman looks like, Robby?" asked Goren.

"He's tall, brown hair, dark eyes…" said the boy. "He's got a scar of his forehead, in between his eyes sorta."

Goren wrote very quickly, his pen moving faster than it had ever done. "Thanks. Hey, do you think you could help someone make a sketch? It would help us find Ms. Eames."

Robby nodded, and the detectives stood up. The youth did not rise higher than his waist, and Goren felt a tug on his coat. Looking down, he saw the boy was clinging to his coat, his bright eyes wide.

"Will you find her? She's my favorite neighbor. She makes me cookies sometimes," said Robby. Goren patted the child's head softly.

"I'll find her, kid." Goren meant it, not just for the boy, but for himself.

---

Bradley Moss, Dillon Rush, Seth Herbert, and Ira Stover were four men who shared the same agenda: get that money. Someone had contacted them a few months ago, ordering a hit on a man with the name Goren. They were told that he was a cop, and the four men despised cops. They were also told that there would be a huge reward for catching him and turning him over. They were given specific instructions, ones they were to follow to the letter, and they did.

Moss was a buff guy, six-feet, with thick short black hair and a soul patch on his chin. With broad shoulders and thick arms, he was half the muscle of the team, with the other three forming the other half. His face was round, his nose square, and he had smooth cheeks but a wrinkled brow. His most unforgettable feature was his eyes, one blue and the other green, and the blue one having a scar from a childhood accident involving barded wire.

Rush was the sole African-American, taller than Moss but not by much, and he had fast reflexes. He could pull a gun from his belt and shot someone from one-hundred-yards out and nail them between the eyes with little effort. He had his dark hair in dreadlocks that went past his shoulders, and with a long horse-like face and small beady eyes he was intimidating to most. He had a tattoo of a white dragon curling around a flaming sword on his left arm, and was the youngest at twenty-nine.

Herbert was the smallest, rising no higher than five-foot-six, but was the fastest runner of the group. The oldest at forty, he could outrun and outfox almost every single cop in the New York area, the only reason he had been able to keep up his cocaine habit for over thirty years. His blond hair was balding, his brown eyes sharp and very keen to detail, and even with the smallest frame he could overpower even the toughest cops.

Stover finished the troupe as being the only continuous connection to the man, who only went by Mike. Stover was around six-feet, with brown hair and dark, deep-set eyes and bushy eyebrows. His square face and prominent chin gave him an authoritarian look, one that helped him control the members of his party.

The idea was to strip this Goren fellow of his sanity. According to Mike this guy was one on the edge. Mike told them who they were to blackmail in order to begin the operation, and they had done so. Once their use for their fifth and reluctant member was over, they took him out to the Hudson and shot him execution style, throwing his body into the icy waters and tossing the gun they had used, just like Mike had said. Now they were left with what Mike called their "leverage," and the payments the four were to receive began coming in as small sums, no more than ten thousand. With the grand total being way over $100,000 per member, it would take roughly ten shipments, but Mike was cautious. He did not want to leave a money trail.

As the "leverage" was lying quietly on the floor of a New York City building, the four men played poker to pass the time away, waiting for Mike to call them again.

---

Goren arrived back and One Police Plaza after noon, his mind moving at half-speed without Eames at his side. It was an empty feeling, the ache in his stomach rising to his chest, and he was more frustrated than anything. He rode in the elevator alone. On the ride up he was constantly pacing in the small space, wondering why Littman would take Eames. As the doors opened with their soft ding a bulb went off in Goren's head: Littman was Eames' current boyfriend. Yet there was no motive up to this point.

The detective was making his way to his desk when he heard Deakins calling him into his office. Goren complied, his eyes falling onto his partner's vacant desk still covered with papers. He entered his captain's office to find Assistant District Attorney Ron Carver and another man in the office. Shutting the door, Goren began to observe this stranger. He was tall, his height only exceeded by his own, with short brown hair and dark hazel eyes. His face was long and heart-shaped, his mouth small with thin lips, a long and sharp nose and his eyes wide and piercing. There was scaring on his face from high school acne, and he was a rather slender and small-framed character.

"Sir?" asked Goren. Deakins was leaning against his desk, arms folded across his chest and his face in a grimace set.

"Goren, I'd like you to meet Special Agent Joseph M. Livingston. He's with the Missing Persons Unit at the FBI."

Goren was not quite sure he understood his captain. "Sir, you can't take this away—"

"It's not his call, detective," said Carver in his cool voice.

"Sir!" Goren spun on his heels and stared at the prosecutor.

"Goren," warned Deakins. Goren's look of disbelief turned to his captain. "I'm not taking it _away_ from you. I'm just complying with what IAB said."

"Sir, _complying_! This—this is Eames we're talking about!"

"I know. Which is why Special Agent Livingston is here to help you. IAB wants the FBI on this, but I want you on it. Carver helped bring it to a compromise."

Goren's eyes fell back onto the agent, the hard glare in his eyes not faltering the man. He was angered that the FBI had become involved. It was a New York cop, no, it was his partner, his friend, who was in trouble, and he was going to nail the bastards who took her, however many, to the wall. The agent took a step forward, his moves non-threatening.

"Detective, I'm not here to strip you of this. I'm here to help you," he said. Goren opened his mouth, prepared to snap at the man, but Deakins spoke quickly.

"Could I have a word with my detective, sirs?"

Livingston faced Deakins. "Certainly." He walked past Goren and opened the office door, closing the door behind Carver as they exited. Goren revolved back to his captain.

"Are you serious!" retorted Goren. It was not a question.

Deakins stood off his desk and walked to his detectives, his arms falling to his sides. "IAB wanted the FBI to take this, but I refused. I know this is important to you, and I know you can find her long before those damn agents from Washington can. I'm just trying to make it seem that IAB is in control."

"Yes, sir." Goren nodded, understanding. Deakins had a lot of pressure from IAB, as well as political leaders and people with large fat checkbooks. Having one of Major Case's own go missing, abducted from their home, was not a pleasant thought. Once the case broke out, people would want results, and for most simple-minded New Yorkers, the FBI equaled results.

"Loyalty knows no politics, Goren. Now go," ordered Deakins.

Goren said nothing as he left his captain's office, closing the door quietly behind him. It had hard to imagine that merely a few hours ago he had been curious about how Eames' date had gone only now to understand that it must have gone terribly. He walked to his desk to find Livingston looking at the pictures on Eames' desk, picking up the one of her nephew. The agent lifted his head and looked at Goren.

"Handsome boy. How old is he?"

"He's two," answered Goren. He sat in his chair and removed his coat. Livingston set the picture calmly on the desk and pulled up her chair, sitting behind her desk. Goren felt an empty pain travel through him as the agent sat and scooted to the desk.

"She must be proud," said Livingston.

"He's her nephew," replied Goren. He pulled his notepad from his pocket, bringing out the folded-up doodle page and tossed them on the table. Livingston raised an eyebrow at the doodles but Goren ignored him and began reviewing his notes.

"I know, I read her file," said Livingston. "From what I've gathered she's a tough cop."

"One of the very best, sir."

Livingston nodded. "What have you gotten so far?"

Even though Goren resented having to debrief the FBI agent on his partner's disappearance, he did so with as much charm as he could muster without sickening himself. He explained about the note, the lock of hair, Robby seeing a man in her apartment. He knew the agent was ready to try and take all the credit, but he did not care. It was Eames, and Goren would do anything to make sure she was all right. It did not matter who received the credit, not anymore.

"So, who reported it?" asked Livingston.

"Hmm?" Goren was only half-way paying attention to the agent, hoping that the icy-shoulder technique he adopted from Eames would take affect. Obviously her tactic did not work for him.

"Who reported her missing? We need to interview them straight away."

Goren turned to face the special agent, one arm on the desk and the other on his leg. "No need. It was me."

"You?" inquired Livingston. Goren clarified his suspicions to the agent with a dark stare, hoping that the agent would suddenly burst into flame and turn into a pile of useless ash, leaving him to find his partner alone. No such thing happened.

"You took it upon yourself to search her apartment, even through you had no reason to, no probable cause—"

"Hey!" barked Goren. "It doesn't matter! All that's important is that we've got a missing person, and I aim to find her, with or without you,_ sir_."

Some passing rookies overheard the loud conversation and jogged away in fright. Most had heard Goren raise his voice before, just not in front of the FBI. They ignored it and continued with their tasks. All knew that Goren would do anything to find his partner, regardless.

What did it matter that Goren had not waited until a family member or a neighbor called in Eames' disappearance two days late? Loyalty knows no politics, as Deakins had said. Goren's first responsibility was to his partner, not to this special agent from the FBI who thought he was going to control this investigation.

_Fuck protocol_.

"Okay, detective," said Livingston coolly. He picked up Eames' phone and dialed the crime lab. As he rested the phone on his shoulder he began flipping through an open file, licking his thumbs as he turned the pages. Goren watched his movements, something not sitting right with him about this man. His gut was normally right, and at the moment his gut was twisted into a hundred knots.

---

"Show 'em."

"Three fours, boo-ya!"

"Pair of Aces…shit, dude…"

"Full House! Read 'em and weep! Give me th' pot."

"Ah—no, that's mine. Royal flush."

"Ah, fuck ya, man"

Eames heard the voices before she even fully woke up. Her head was throbbing, feeling as if someone had rammed her head into a wall, and she did not want to open her eyes. Forcing her eyelids to part, she scanned the room. It was not her apartment, nor any other place she was familiar with. She was lying on her side on the floor, tape across her mouth and her hands behind her. She felt cool metal on her wrists, and she rolled her eyes: her own handcuffs.

_Ironic little twist, huh Levi. Where are you?_

Her eyes fell onto four figures surrounding a round table, three Caucasian and one African-American. One of the Caucasian men had a cigarette in his mouth, and all of them were having cards dealt to them by the African-American. Eames did not know who they were, and she knew Levi did not handle with people like that. But then again, he had drugged her, so maybe she did not really know what her ex-boyfriend was capable of.

She pushed herself off the floor and leaned against the wall, her body cramping as she moved. It felt like she had been shoved in a box and thrown around like a doll. Her joints begged to pop but she did not want them to. As she stretched out her unbounded legs her knees popped loudly, and she froze. Two of the men turned, one with thick muscles and black hair and another with brown hair and deep eyes.

"She's up, fellas," said the black haired one. The brown haired one smacked his friend on the back of the head.

"Nice, Bradley. What was ya first clue?"

"Shuddap, Ira," said Moss, standing from the table. Stover and the two others followed suit, Stover tossing his cigarette and smothering it with his shoe. They approached Eames, who was not intimidated by their large figures. The one with grey hair was the shortest of them all and probably not much taller than herself. The African-American grabbed her by her arm and pulled her up in one jerky movement. Her head snapped in his direction and she flashed him a livid glare, her eyes narrow.

"She's a nice piece of ass," said the small man as his eyes wandered over her. He reached out and touched her hair, to which she jerked back, trying to free herself from the tight grip on her arm.

_Can it, buster._

"Shuddap, Seth," said Stover. "We ain't to do nothin' until Mike calls."

Moss leaned his tall frame into Eames' sight. "Why'd we haveta get this bitch?"

_Excuse me?_

Eames slammed her heel into Moss' foot, and he yelled out. She was thrown into the floor, and she landed on her left arm hard on her elbow. She cried out behind her gag, the only sound she made a groan, and she rolled onto her back. Herbert bent over her and glared into her eyes, and she only returned it. She could see Stover grabbing the one of the men fast out of the corner of her eye.

"Dillon, what're ya, crazy?"

"Jeez, sorry, dude," said Rush, wrenching his arm free. "I'll just drop her next time."

Eames was forced up by Moss and Herbert, both men standing at angles where she could not attack them with her feet. The carefully guided her to another corner, where they tossed her to the floor again. Her right shoulder fell into the wall, the dull pain from her previous fall switching sides.

Stover slowly lifted his gaze off Rush and turned sharply to Moss. "Bradley, if ya wanna end up like that punk we tipped into the Hudson, keep complainin'. If you want a hundred-thousand, ya stick with it. Got me?" barked Stover.

Moss seemed to understand, and he spit on Eames as he followed the others back to their poker game. Eames stared at them defiantly, only looking down to see Moss' saliva fall on her now dusty jacket. Leaning her head against the wall, she wondered why she was there.

_What do they want with me?_

"The game's seven card stud," said Rush.


	3. Messages

_What do they want with her?_

Goren could not get his head around it; who would want to hurt Eames? He had called the NYU hospital to see if Dr. Littman was in, but they said he had gone out on a house call around seven that morning and that he had not returned. Livingston was at the crime lab pushing for progress, but Tyler had called Goren to say that they were still processing Eames' apartment. The hair with the note matched Eames, only verifying the truth. Tyler also said if they found anything that he would call the detective personally. The CSU seemed as if he could understand Goren's pain.

Goren tried to recall everything about Littman that Eames had told him. He was studying to be a doctor, he was a tranquil person who rarely became angered, and he was humble and modest. Yet something must have happened last night to derail that calm personality and unleash the beast within. Eames could take care of herself. If someone tried to attack her, she could scare them off in a heartbeat. She could have easily overtaken Littman if he attacked her. Unless she was drugged. That would give the doctor an advantage over her.

He looked across from him to find an empty chair. There was no one he could bounce his ideas off of, which only deepened the void inside him. Livingston was not even trying to assess his personal conflicts raging inside him, but then again hardly anyone did, except Eames.

Slamming his hands into the desk, Goren rose and left the squad room, taking the stairs down to the bottom floor and heading outside. He pushed the doors open with such force people around him were afraid the door would snap off its hinges. Once outside, he walked to a newspaper stand and purchased a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He returned to the steps of One Police Plaza and lit himself a cigarette, inhaling the smoke and releasing it through his nostrils like a bull. He put the matchbook and pack of cigarettes into his coat pocket for a later time. It did not calm him, only presented him with a moment to think.

Littman had appeared to be such a nice character, from what Eames had told him. Whether or not being a doctor had any say in their relationship was uncertain, but Goren could remember two times his partner had come almost skipping into work, the smile on her face bright. It was smiles like those which would lighten up his day from the start, even if they had mounds of paperwork to sort through. It was something about her character that made her Eames, along with her infamous bad-cop routine, quick cynicism, and touch exterior.

His cell phone vibrated at his side, and he picked it up, taking another puff of smoke before placing it to his ear. "Goren."

"_Hello, detective,_" said a raspy male voice. Goren furrowed his brow, confused as to who this person was.

"Who's this?" he asked. Heavy breathing resonated on the other line, and he gripped the phone tightly in his hand.

"_Did you get my note?_" The voice was laughing as it spoke. Not physical laughter, but the tone of the voice was. Goren crushed the half-smoked cigarette in his fist and let the hot flakes of it float to the sidewalk, forgetting that there was an astray three feet from him.

"What do you want?" demanded Goren. His words almost choked in his throat, but he managed to force them past his vocal chords.

"_She's very pretty. Beautiful face, incredible body—I especially like the way she cuts glances at people when she's irritated. Course, I'd hate to have to ruin that for her._"

Goren clenched his hand into a tight fist, his small nails digging into his palm. "Don't you touch a single hair on her head," he warned. A hollow chuckle emitted from his phone.

"_It's a bit too late for that, isn't it? Make sure you check your mail, detective. She'll have a present waiting for you._" The other line disconnected, leaving a piercing dial tone ringing in Goren's ears. He gritted his teeth as he lowered the phone and slammed it shut. No one messed with Eames, no one.

Spinning on his heels, Goren trekked back up the stairs to the doors, replacing his phone at his side. As he released his fingers it vibrated again, and he hastily took it and flipped it open. The screen told him he had a text message. Hoping it was from Tyler or Deakins, he quickly went to read it, but his hopes were replaced with fury when he read the message:

_**Her hair is very soft, you know; smells nice, too.**_

Goren felt a growl in his throat as he pushed open the doors of One Police Plaza, people avoiding him from all directions, and he turned to the stairs, marching up taking three at the time. He reached the eleventh floor fairly quickly, and he went straight to Deakins' office, not bothering to knock or be polite as he slammed the door behind him. Deakins was reading over paperwork when Goren entered.

"Goren! What the hell's wrong with you?" insisted Deakins.

Goren was pacing wildly, his hands flying about. "They're going to hurt her, they're going to hurt her and I don't know why!" he yelled.

Deakins rose up slowly, taking off his glasses and folding them before he placed them on his desk. Goren ignored him, his anger mounting inside him.

"Goren, calm down," requested Deakins softly. He motioned to a chair, but Goren did not accept. "How do you know they're going to hurt her?"

"They called me, sir. They said they'd call me, they said it in the note—"

"When?"

"Just now, while I was outside, having a smoke—they're going to hurt her, sir, and there's nothing I can do about it!"

Goren slammed his fists into Deakins' desk, rattling the windows and the framed plaques on the wall. People outside the office jumped in surprise when the heard the miniature sonic boom exploded in their captain's office. Deakins, unfazed by his detective's actions, folded his arms.

"What did they say?" he asked. Goren had returned to his pacing, hands flying around him once more.

"I…God!" Goren could not speak, which was a rarity indeed. His mind was now racing faster than it ever had, the exact opposite of before, but without any calming effect from Eames it was only destined to speed up.

Deakins approached him, placing his hand on his shoulder. "Where was Livingston in all of this?"

"At the crime lab," answered Goren. It was more of an exhale rather than a response, Goren feeling physically drained suddenly. He walked to a chair and sat down, his elbows on his knees and his head hanging. Deakins picked up his phone and dialed the crime lab, barking orders that Livingston was to report to him right away. Goren heard no noise. Instead all the outside sounds were buzzing like interference in his ears.

---

Eames somehow went to sleep again while leaning against the wall, her mouth still gagged with tape and her hands still behind her in her own handcuffs. It was not a peaceful sleep. It was a sleep composed of little rest and lots of thinking about nothing. Yet it was a deep enough sleep for her not to hear the men leave and return an hour later with a video camera and some tapes, along with other things they had purchased for later use.

Her eyes opened at the sound of a phone ringing, but she made no sound and did not move. She heard footsteps walking across the room, followed by someone picking up the phone.

"Hello?" It was a voice she automatically paired with Stover, but she made no notion that she was awake, listening.

"Oh, Mike, hey…Yeah, yeah he did…Yes, we did that too…Of course not! We were—okay, okay, I gotcha…ya did? Awesome, man!—Now? Okay, sure. And y'all come 'round when…okay, great. Yeah, see ya 'round." The phone fell back on the receiver, and Eames heard footsteps again.

"Guys, get it ready," ordered Stover. Chairs scooted across the floor, and four pairs of feet began shuffling on the hardwood floor. A rough hand grabbed Eames' arm and yanked her up, forcing her onto her feet. Her head snapped around to find Moss' grip above her elbow.

"Resistance is futile, miss," he said.

_What the hell is this, _Star Wars_? Sheesh._

Moss forced her to walk towards the center of the vacant room, still bound and gagged, where she heard someone in the shadows constructing something.

_If they think I'm going to beg for my life or for a ransom, they're highly mistaken._

Moss did not sit her in a chair, nor did he throw her on the ground. He let her go and left her standing in the middle of the room, traveling to a darkened corner and rummaging through a bag. Someone approached her from behind and seized her by the shoulders, their head hovering at her shoulder like Goren would do.

"Miss, ya ready?" asked Rush. Eames ignored him, her focus on the wall in front of her. The hands let go, and Stover walked beside her, he and Rush circling her hungrily. She watched them in turn as they revolved around her, her legs ready to jump away when they were ready to strike.

Herbert appeared rather suddenly in front of her, catching her off guard, and that was when the first blow struck her from behind. It was not a fist, but some kind of pipe, and it hit the back of her knee. She grunted as she fell to one knee, and Stover and Rush began delivering punches and kicks to her small body. She managed to kick Stover off her and roll onto her back, but Herbert was waiting for her with a short piece of rebar in hand. He brought it down on her stomach, and she curled up in pain. But they did not stop, with Stover and Rush punching and kicking and Moss and Herbert holding a pipe and a piece of rebar and beating her. None of the blow were directed to her face, but it did not matter where they were falling, just the fact that they were.

Rush grabbed her and forced her on her side, and Moss slammed his pipe into shoulder blade. She screamed behind the tape, her eyes wide and filling with tears from pain. She was becoming angry, her sudden tears drying up, but she could not defend herself with her hands tied behind her. None of them cared that she was helpless, a feeling she hated to admit even having. It was not a fair fight.

She was forced to her feet, where she made herself stand tall, and she glared into Stover's eyes as he punched her in the stomach. Two sets of arms kept her standing as Stover continued to punch her unforgivably, and all she could do was grit her teeth and take it, eyes closed to block the pain.

Suddenly the punching stopped, but she did not open her eyes. She felt the metal around her wrists being removed, and she realized that she was free, but had no answer as to why. The tape came off her mouth, stinging but not worth crying over, and she lifted her head weakly to face Stover's crooked smile.

"Your turn, wench," he taunted.

Eames' eyes narrowed as the arms released her, and finding unknown strength inside herself she quickly jabbed Stover in the face. Herbert grabbed her from behind, but a smart elbow to his nose made him let go. Rush swung a pipe towards her, and she instinctively raised her arms. It collided with her forearm and she screamed out, her entire right arm numb, and the pipe jabbed her in the chest. She collapsed to the floor, Moss' strong arms delivering punches to all of her body except her head, and she was beginning to feel drained.

As she tried to stand Herbert's foot caught her in the stomach and she fell back to the floor. Every time she attempted to stand someone kicked her, and after a long few minutes of being kicked she rolled over onto her back, completely breathless and in sheer pain. She did not resist when someone picked her up and restrained her again, slapping tape to her mouth and dragged her back to the corner she had been in before. She was tossed into the corner, where she lay limp on the floor.

_Why?_

---

"Where the hell have you been?" Deakins and Goren were in his office, Livingston standing smugly before them, his hands in his pockets.

"I was overseeing evidence, sir," said Livingston coolly. "As the leader of this investigation—"

"I never crowned you the head of this investigation!" barked Deakins. He was angered beyond any anger he had ever experienced before. He was considering throwing the FBI poster boy off this case and personally joining Goren in finding Eames, but he knew he could not do such a thing, as desirable as it was.

"IAB wants the FBI on this case," argued Livingston.

"I'm not a damn idiot, Livingston. Just because you're FBI doesn't make you the head of this investigation. You are here on privilege, not for anything else. Do you understand?"

Livingston nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Right," said Deakins. "Now, you go help Goren find Eames. Out, both of you."

As the detective and special agent were exiting his office another detective raced in, a package in his hand.

"Sir!" The young detective spun about, his actions pointing that he did not know who to address, Deakins or Goren. Deakins placed a hand on his shoulder, and the man stopped and faced him.

"What is it, Argo?" asked the captain.

The young detective gave him the package. "It's about Detective Eames, sir."


	4. Can't Believe

Goren was sitting in an empty office room, along with Livingston and Deakins. Before him lay the package addressed to Deakins, but with attention to himself. There was no return address, nor a stamp or any sign that it had even been sent via mail. Argo had said the mail carrier had handed it to him, and that he would personally interview him to see of the origins of the package. Until they received word, they could do nothing but wait.

Goren had taken the liberty of feeling the package, determining that there was a videotape inside, along with at least one piece of paper. The worst things flashed in his mind, images of Eames' plea to him or worse. He knew that his partner would not voluntarily be videotaped asking for a ransom or the dropping of the investigation. He could see it then, Eames tied to a chair with a camcorder in her face, sticking out her tongue and spitting into the camera's lens, disgusted with being a victim. The thought made him smile, one only his captain had noticed.

The door to the room opened and Argo stick his mullet-decorated head into the room. "It was on top of the mailbox. IAB says go ahead." He left.

Goren turned to Livingston. "Go to the office across the squad room and bring a TV," he said. Livingston snorted but complied, leaving the office. Goren then proceeded to open the package to indeed find a videotape and a note, the handwriting the same as the first.

_**Hope you like it.**_

Goren looked at Deakins, who walked to him and set his hands on the table, his eyes falling on the videotape. "What'd think on it?" asked the captain.

"We can only hope," replied Goren. His voice was very empty.

"You mean, you can only hope," corrected Deakins. Silently, the detective agreed with his captain.

Just then Livingston opened the door and pulled behind him a television on a podium, closing the door with his foot. He grumbled as he plugged it to the outlet, but when he went for the tape Goren snatched it out of his reach. As he stood the agent's cell phone rang, and he left to pick it up. Goren watched him carefully as he shut the door and walked out of sight. His mind still was not sitting right about him.

Goren turned on the television and inserted the tape in the videocassette recorder, pressing play before he went to sit down. The tape began with a figure in the shadow, only his upper torso and head in view. A light slowly fell on it to reveal a puppet, a crudely made one, with a white face and black splotched on its cheeks and chin.

"What is this, _Saw_?" asked Deakins. Goren turned to his captain, not understanding.

Deakins met his eye. "It's a movie, kind of weird. My kids wanted me to see it, but I don't recommend it," he explained. Goren turned back to the screen, where the puppet's mouth began to move and a raspy voice, the one from his earlier conversation, began to speak.

"_Hello, detective. Here's some quality entertainment for you. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I did._"

The scene changed to an empty room, dimly lit. Someone was being dragged across the room, and two figures came into focus. One was a man Goren did not know and had never seen before, and the other was Eames. She was bound and gagged, her eyes full of bitter anger. Goren's mouth gaped slightly, with his hands on the table. Deakins slowly stood straight behind his detective.

Another man came up from behind and placed his hands on Eames' shoulders. He spoke to her in a whisper, and the video only captured a whistling sound instead of actual words. He and another man, a different man than the first, began circling her. She did not move or try to run, but stared at them as they surrounded her. A fourth man leapt out from the foreground, and the first man appeared behind her with a pipe. He struck her behind her knee, and the flogging began.

Goren stood sharply, slightly upsetting the table as he did, and he watched as Eames was being beaten with pipes, pieces of rebar, fists, and feet, she being completely helpless with her hands behind her back. He could hear her shout muffled cries as she was kicked and punched. She was lifted off the floor and held up as she was being punched in the stomach. Goren was feeling every punch, every kick, every swipe. It angered him.

One of the men removed Eames' gag, and someone behind her freed her from her binds. Goren saw they were her own handcuffs, which he knew only angered her more. The one in front of her said something, exactly what could not be distinguished, and she began to fight back, hitting one in the face and another in the nose before one of them swung a pipe into her arm. Her scream pierced through Goren's mind, echoing as no sound had ever before. The pipe stabbed her in the chest and she fell, another thug beating her again. She tried to stand but received kicks to her torso, and after five long minutes she collapsed on the floor, rolling onto her back and lying still. Goren could see her chest rising and falling fast, panting. The men picked her up, handcuffed and gagged her, and one of them dragged her from view. The men all left the dim light, and that scene was over.

The puppet returned to the screen. "_I wonder what the next installment has in store._" The screen went blank.

Goren fought the urge to slam his fist through the television, instead sending his fist into the table. It made a loud bang, causing Deakins to jump. Goren did not yell out or express his anger verbally, just bottled it up inside.

_Why!_

His phone rang, and he quickly answered it. "Goren."

"_Did you see how I made sure they didn't hit her face?_" croaked the raspy voice. Goren's hand tightened onto another fist, his fingers popping loudly.

"What do you want from me!"

"_For now, watching you squirm is good enough. I can't wait for part two, can you?_" The line died.

Goren's face twisted into a visual anger, and he slammed his phone closed so violently it almost shattered. He clipped it to his waist but said nothing, breathing heavily through his nose, and he closed his eyes to try and calm himself.

Livingston's head appeared in the door. "Goren? They found Dr. Littman."

---

Goren and Livingston arrived at the New York County Morgue, where Medical Examiner Elizabeth Rodgers was standing over a grey and bloated body. She looked at Goren, ignoring the agent's presence, and addressed the detective.

"Here's your beloved Dr. Levi Littman. Cause of death is gunshot to the back of the head, execution style. A nine-mill. He was found floating in the Hudson," she explained.

"So all trace evidence is gone," said Livingston. Goren cut his eyes at the agent but did not turn to him. Rodgers kept her gaze on either the body or Goren, but she answered his question.

"Coincidentally, yes. Tox screen showed no drugs in his system."

"How long has he been dead?" asked Goren.

Rodgers rested her gloved hands on the slab before her. "Based on liver temp and the temperature of the Hudson this time of year, I'd say somewhere between seven to eight hours."

Goren forced a nod, swallowing the lump in his throat. His only suspect was now dead, his only lead gone. It was not fair. Whoever took Eames wanted him to suffer, and they were doing a swell job of it. His phone began ringing, and he grabbed it fast.

"Goren."

"_Detective, it's Tyler. We've got something._" Hearing the voice of the CSU calmed his nerves only slightly.

"Thanks." Goren closed his phone and clipped it to his side. Livingston was looking at him, his hazel eyes swirling, and Goren decided to not tell the agent.

"It was my neighbor," lied the detective, "said she got my mail for me. Her last name's Gordon and our mail gets mixed sometimes." Livingston nodded eerily, and Goren realized his trick, simple and severely flawed as it was, had worked. Livingston began walking out of the morgue. Goren turned to follow, but he felt someone tap him of his shoulder. He turned to see Rodgers.

"How close are you?" she asked.

Goren lowered his head and his voice. "Farther than I would like." Rodgers shook her head.

"Let me rephrase. How close are you to wringing that prick's scrawny little neck?" She motioned to the agent.

Goren smiled. "Closer by the minute." Rodgers nodded.

"Good. His ego could use a little deflating."

---

Goren walked into Deakins' open office as soon as he and Livingston returned from the morgue. He knocked lightly, and when the captain lifted his head the detective closed the door.

"Sir, I'd like to request the rest of the afternoon off," he said.

Deakins lowered his pen, studying Goren's features. Other than the fact he was obviously distraught and angered, Deakins could see a dim but familiar glint in his detective's eye. His detective had a possible lead, and he did not need the FBI breathing down his throat.

"Sure, Goren. You need it," replied Deakins.


	5. Games

Goren was greeted by Tyler the moment he arrived, and the CSU took him into his office, where he closed the door and leaned against it.

"Well?" asked Goren.

"We found some white fibers on the floor near the door. Traces of ether were on the fibers, as were epithelia. It matches Dr. Littman—"

"Who's in the morgue," added Goren. His hopes were sinking faster and faster, free-falling in his gut.

"That's not all. The note on the bed had a lot of fingerprints. We excluded yours, and we found prints from six different people. One set matches the deceased doctor, four match repeat offenders, and one is still unidentifiable at this time."

"Which offenders?"

"Ira Stover, Dillon Rush, Bradley Moss, and Seth Herbert. I have their files on my desk." Tyler pointed to four files stacked in the middle of his desk, and Goren took them in his hand before turning back to the CSU.

"The handwriting is very unique," continued Tyler. "The letters are close together, thin but tall, and looped, suggesting he's used to writing in cursive and not in print. There are wide spaces between his words and lines, and there are arches present in his Y's and L's. The T-bars are left-tending, slanted up from left to right. Heavy pastiosity is also present."

"All of which expresses criminal tendency and low impulse control," added Goren, swallowing a harsh lump in his throat.

"Yes. And from our handwriting experts, neither the offenders nor the doctor composed your message. Our guess is that whoever composed that note matches the unknown fingerprints. I had Archie look at the video, and he's cleaning it up. I think it can help you find our missing detective."

"May I see the edited tape?" asked Goren. The jammed gears in his head were beginning to turn, and he followed the CSU out of the office and to the tech lab, where a young African-American with a backwards baseball cap was typing frantically on a keyboard. From the looks of the screen, he was editing audio for another case.

"Archie." The man turned in his chair. "This is Detective Goren. Where's that tape?"

David "Archie" Archfield was a handsome man, standing at six-feet and with a long, slender face. His grey eyes shined brightly against his caramel skin, and his well-groomed goatee made Goren's stubble seem very shaggy. The techie reached into a drawer and pulled out a tape labeled _COPY_, and he entered it into the system. As he wheeled to another computer, he explained what they had done.

"It's called AV lab work. All tapes record beyond what's on the screen; all we do is tap into that and show it off."

He busily began typing and clicking the mouse, the video frozen on the first frame and on the computer screen the image shrunk in size, widening the view to what Goren had not seen. He could see the thugs in the shadows, frozen on film, preparing to bludgeon his beloved partner until she could not take it. He could also see a window, a small and thickly dirty window, to the far left. Archie enhanced the image, but the window as still very murky. He turned to face his supervisor and the detective as Tyler spoke.

"I know it's not much, but Archie here can work with it some more and clean it up."

Goren nodded, feeling relieved that the tape was doing something good in finding Eames. Even if it was a relatively small step, at least it was a step forward.

---

Stover lit a cigarette as he leaned his chair on the back legs, the back leaning against the wall. The boys were either sleeping, playing solitaire, or were snorting in a corner or another room somewhere. It was his duty as the most controlled and as the brains of the operation to watch their hostage. She, whatever her name was, was lying in a corner across from him, either sleep or being extremely quiet. In his mind and in his dreams she would be Kathryn; she looked like a Kathryn. Even if her name was not Kathryn, that was her name to him.

Taking a deep inhale of smoke Stover wondered what their next assignment was going to be. Mike made it clear they were on a need-to-know basis, and that was fine with him. It was how he lived, taking one step at the time, and he preferred to work that way as well. The other guys were not as enthusiastic about being bossed around by a raspy voice on the phone, but as long as they were getting their paychecks they were happy boys.

Stover took in another breath of smoke and stood up, wiping the ash from his shirt and onto the floor. He walked over to the small figure in the corner and squatted down to look at her face. She was very pretty, her hair masking her face but not overdoing it. His feet shifted on the hard floor, making a scuffing sound, and she jerked up.

_She musta been sleepin'._

Her light brown eyes fell onto Stover, and they narrowed at him, glaring. She was angry with him, but Stover could understand why; after all, she had been roughed up by four guys, but that was what Mike told them to do. She shifted her body to face him, her legs curled under her body and her back to the wall. Shaking her hair from her face, she exhaled through her nose loudly. Stover lifted his cigarette up to his mouth and breathed in, blowing the smoke into her face. She turned her head away and began coughing behind the duct tape. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"Havin' fun?" he asked. From the look in her eyes and the muffled sounds originating from her gag, he could tell she was cursing him. He grinned sheepishly as he stood, before leaving giving her a quick kick to the stomach, and she doubled over and moaned. He walked away, throwing back his head, and laughed. As he laughed the phone rang, and he quickly answered it.

"Hello?"

"_Mike here,_" said a voice. "_Got another job for you._"

---

No mail hinting at Eames arrived at Goren's apartment that afternoon, but it would not have mattered. Goren was so wound up about possibly finding his partner that he was not thinking about the possibility that any mail concerning Eames would arrive. His mind was so preoccupied he did not even change out of his clothes before he fell onto his couch, but he did not fall asleep. Closing his eyes only brought the scenes from the video to his mind, and he did not want that. Around four in the morning he finally passed out, not bothering about setting an alarm or turning on the heat.

He woke around seven the next morning, drained and cramped, but he forced himself off the couch and into the shower, a cold shower. He jumped in, woke up, and leapt out into a cool towel. He found some clean undergarments and quickly changed into another business suit and headed out the door, without breakfast or coffee. Yes, he was groggy and hungry, but his mind was set on finding his partner, and there was no time for food.

He arrived at One Police Plaza on time, entering the crowded elevator and rising slowly to the eleventh floor. Once the doors opened he stepped out onto the Major Case Squad floor, and he spotted Livingston at Eames' desk. He approached the agent, tossing his coat over the man's head and onto the back of his chair. As he passed Livingston the detective saw that the agent had a package in front of him, a yellow package addressed to Deakins with attention to himself again. He froze.

"No…"

Goren immediately snatched the package from Livingston and marched into the same vacant office he and Deakins had been in before, opening it carefully with his knife and letting the contents slide onto the table. It was another videotape and note, but there was an index card with a large red dot on the center. He carefully took the card in hand and smelled it. A strong odor of mildew hit his nose, as well as another familiar smell. Blood.

Deakins entered the office along with Livingston, and Goren stood and shoved the tape back inside the videocassette recorder, hitting play with his fist and standing up with one foot resting on the chair. The same puppet appeared on the screen and began talking.

"_Part two: bad cop gone wrong._"

---

Eames was pulled from the floor, dragged across the room, and tossed in a chair. She did not care about that. The pain aching through her was just becoming tolerable when Moss started towing her around. She circled her neck, none of the bones popping and all the muscles very stiff. From nowhere a dark fist collided with her face, and she nearly fell off the chair and onto the floor. Someone caught her and pushed her back on the chair. Dazed, she tried to turn and see who hit her when another blow struck her, this one to the other side of her face. She could taste blood from a busted lip, but she was too tired to do anything.

Her eyes fell onto Herbert and Stover, both holding nightsticks in their hands, smacking them into their palms with hardened looks on their faces.

_How'd they get those?_

A swift punch cut her off her train of thought, and she fell from the chair and onto the floor. That was when Stover and Herbert began striking her with the nightsticks. It was relentless. Either she was being punched in the face or being beaten all over with nightsticks. And all she could do was lie on the cold floor, flinching and shouting muffles and curling and arching in pain. It was a pain only comparable to one event and that was giving birth. It made labor seem like an everyday stomach cramp.

It was such pain she could feel her body beginning to numb itself, her extremities loosing all sensitivity and she began to feel light-headed. She knew she was about to pass out, and it angered her, but her body still went limp as she lost consciousness.

---

The puppet's face appeared on the screen, but Goren did not see it. Eames' small frame going very limp as she was being beaten inexorably was burned onto his retina long after the scene ended.

_No…_

"_I always knew the bad-cop routine was bad for your health. Part three's coming soon, so stay tuned._" The screen went blank.

Goren crumpled into the chair, his hand over his chest. His partner's pain was channeling into him, and he hurt just thinking of her pain. He was so in shock he had not noticed Livingston leaving to answer another call, but that did not matter to him. Both Deakins and Goren were expecting a call from the kidnapper, yet both were startled when the detective's cell phone rang.

"Goren." Heavy breathing was on the other line, but it was quickly destroyed with a burst of laughter.

"_I almost hated to see it done, you know. She's got a pretty face,_" said the voice. Goren began breathing hard, standing again.

"You're a dead man," he growled.

"_I don't feel dead just yet, detective._" The conversation was over. Goren's hand was shaking madly as he lowered the phone from his ear. He was angry. A strong hand took his forearm and guided him to his seat, Deakins' hand. The phone clattered onto the table as Deakins stood spread-eagle across from him, his hands on the table.

"I had Tyler look at your cell phone records. Whoever's calling you is using those disposable cell phones. Archie's also cleaned up the still of the window. She's still in New York, which is a good sign," said Deakins softly.

Goren did not respond because he could not speak. This person, these people, they were aiming to destroy him. That was their goal, to use his partner to make him sink to his knees and fall. He was straddling a dangerous fence, and by breaking his guidance he was tottering to the wrong, caustic side of the railing. Without Eames to watch him, to spot him as he walked atop this hedge, he was an accident waiting to happen.

_An accident just waiting, itching to happen…_

Goren's phone vibrated, warning him of a text message. He stared at it strangely before he took it in his large hand and flipped it open. His phone was readily slammed into the table after his eyes scanned the message inside. It did not break, but Goren did not want it to yet. His breaking spree was yet to come. His mind was repeating the words that had flashing on the screen:

_**The climax is yet to be.**_

Livingston entered the room, clipping his phone to his belt. Goren noticed it was a Samsung non-bar phone. Yesterday it had been a Motorola non-bar phone. His gut cringed. Something was not right.

---

_Look at you, staring at me. I wonder when you'll figure it out, if ever. Games are so much fun, especially the ones that rack your brain. Want to play again?_


	6. Action Reaction

Deakins walked into his office after the video was finished, closing the door behind him. He was stuck on who would want to hurt his detectives. Goren and Eames were the best team he had, with the highest arrest-conviction record of the entire squad, and where there was no lead they always managed to find one under a rock or in the shadows.

But now the cards were different. Eames was being held hostage, being beaten and abused on a fairly regular basis, and Goren was beginning to crumble. It was not a healthy thought, but it was the truth.

His door was almost closed when a hand forced it open, that hand belonging to a young woman who Deakins knew very well. Her name was Meredith Qualms, a handwriting analysis researcher and a hopeful detective herself. She was a long time neighbor of Deakins, she admiring him since she was a young girl, he and her father were long-time buddies. That did not mean he paid her any favors, he made sure of that.

She was tall, roughly five-foot-nine, with a slender body and a high head. Her shoulder-length hair was a sandy brown, her almond eyes bright blue and her cheekbones high on her face. There was a small childhood scar on her chin, a scar Deakins could remember cleaning from a bad fall from her bike when she was seven. She was twenty-six now, and not the child she once was.

"Sir?" she asked. "I—"

Deakins ushered her in his office, and he quickly closed the door behind her. What they were doing was against protocol, and they had to keep it quiet.

He turned to face her. "Meredith, I thought I said I'd meet you."

"Sir, this couldn't wait." Deakins noticed the files in her hand, files he had told her to sift through. He had asked her for many reasons. To hide it from Internal Affairs, to hide it from Livingston, to hide it from Carver, amongst others.

Deakins motioned to his desk and he walked to his chair as the CSU sat before him, the files in her lap. "What's so important?"

"I think I know the connection with these four men," said Meredith. "All of them were tried and convicted of federal felonies, and all of them enrolled into a program that allows felons, one they've served their time, to give back."

"So, these guys are all spies for the government," said Deakins.

"In a way, yes. They work undercover to help bust drug rings and conspiracies, the lot," added Meredith.

Deakins folded his hands on his desk, lacing his fingers. "And that's it?"

"No, sir. All of these men were charged by the FBI, and the agent on their cases was Special Agent Livingston."

"Livingston?" asked Deakins, shocked. "As in our-pain-in-the-assSpecial Agent Livingston?"

Meredith nodded, a small grin playing on her lips. "The same." She lowered her eyes to the files in front of her. "Sir, may I tell you my theory on this case?"

"You have a theory?"

"Yes, sir."

Deakins leaned back in his chair. "Indulge me."

"All these men have a bone to pick with the FBI, especially Agent Livingston. The FBI trains them to shoot guns, to fight hand-to-hand, to remain undercover for months, even years at a time. They know the chain of command, from the local to the federal level. They would also know that the FBI only comes in when a high-profile case hits a local level, in this case, Detective Eames' kidnapping," explained Meredith.

"So, you think this is their way of getting back at Livingston? It's pretty thin, Meredith," commented Deakins.

"Anorexic, I know. But they also knew that they had to make sure Agent Livingston has a good shot at finding whoever they snatched, Detective Eames. Detective Goren is the best candidate in finding her, and that only ensured that Agent Livingston will run into the four of them—"

"And then it's all over," finished Deakins. He looked at the CSU, her eyes focused on him. "Nice theory, kid."

Meredith smiled. "Thank you, sir." She rose to leave.

"Meredith." She stopped, turning her upper body to look back.

Deakins stood. "Have you filled out your application to transfer here?"

"Yes, sir."

---

Tyler had called Goren and said they had something from the second tape that he would want to see. The detective had invited Livingston to join him on his trip to the Forensics Lab, and they were on their way there, Goren driving one of the Mountaineers.

In Goren's mind puzzle pieces were beginning to fit together, not forming any theory, but nonetheless fitting nicely.

Eames had been abducted the day before, around seven-twenty or seven-thirty, by Dr. Littman. Robby's sketch of the doctor matched the dead doctor in the morgue. The CSU team had found a movie stub for the night before in Eames' apartment, a late movie at a small theatre. They found one for the same time and place at Dr. Littman's home, verifying that they were on a date. Employees at the movie theatre said they had an argument after the movie, and that she went home on a cab while he drove home in his over-priced Volvo. Goren guessed Eames did not like the relationship's direction and called it off, and Littman retaliated by drugging and kidnapping her. But it was shallow, now that Littman was dead.

When Tyler had the lock of hair analyzed to confirm it was Eames', the DNA scientist for the shift found a foreign sample of DNA, male but not Littman's or the felons who were keeping her. It was most likely the unknown fingerprints' DNA and it had been saliva. Goren had been angered, thinking of the perpetrator kissing Eames on her head before yanking out a few strands of hair. But it was compelling evidence against whoever was doing it to her, to him.

_To us._

Deakins had called him to tell him the felons had been in a correctional program where they work for the FBI in order to receive shorter jail time. All four felons were stationed in New York, but because they were given FBI anonymity no one knew where they were. All of them had been caught by Livingston, suggesting that he was the intended target. But the captain agreed with Goren on one thing. It was way too personal to be just a shot at Livingston.

The blood on the index card belonged to Eames, which Goren knew was from her last beating. She had been bleeding when the tape had cut to the puppet, and her life was draining out of Goren as well. But he was determined to find her.

Livingston's disappearances had caught both Goren's and Deakins' attentions, and they were watching him closely. Goren had told his captain that he suspected Livingston as being involved, seeing that he now had a Nokia bar phone and neither the Motorola nor the Samsung non-bar phones he had possession of before. Deakins told him he would look into Livingston possibly using disposable phones, but it would not mean much of anything by itself. Goren still had his hunches and gut feelings, and they were all warning him of the special agent.

The ride was made in utter silence, and soon they were parked in front of the Forensics Lab. The walked along side each other into the building and met Tyler in the lobby. He shook their hands in turn and escorted them to his office.

"Where's the evidence?" asked Livingston. Goren and Tyler ignored his presence.

"What'd you find?" asked Goren.

"In the second tape, Archie noticed an abnormality in the outer film. Turns out it was a billboard in another window. The contents of it are still murky, but we're triangulating her position with the windows. We're not entirely sure, but we think she's somewhere around Hell's Kitchen," said Tyler.

"Basically, anywhere between Thirty-fourth and Fifty-ninth, from Eighth to the Hudson," said Livingston. "That's a lot of space to cover. You can't be more specific?"

"We think on Seven Avenue, but—" began Tyler. He did not get to finish, for Livingston marched out of the office and out of sight. The CSU and the detective looked at each other, and Tyler spoke.

"Your captain had me pull your records again," said Tyler. "My people are looking into whoever's been calling you."

Goren nodded, unclipping his phone and holding it in his hand. Looking up, he asked "Who has access to my number?"

Tyler shrugged. "It's in your file, isn't it?"

"Yes…"

Livingston had access to his file. He also had access it Eames'. He had mentioned it before. He would have reviewed the detective's files and realized how important their bond was, and he could exploit that. But _could _was the key word there, meaning it might not be him. It was compelling, nonetheless.

His hand began to vibrate, his phone ringing in his hand. "Goren."

"_How about some quality home entertainment?_" suggested the raspy voice.

---

Eames was woken by someone grabbing her shoulders and dragging her across the floor. They did not even bother to try to pick her up, just pulled her across the floor. In her mind another beating was echoing in her head, and that was not what she wanted. Pain was not a great companion, mainly because it took up all her attention and did not give her time to think. Yet when she had time to think, she never did. Her flight response was screaming at her instead. She struggled, twisting to free herself.

Moss dropped her in the middle of the room again, and Herbert bent down and began to unlock the warm cuffs on her wrists. Rush leaned over in front of her, grabbed the tape, and ripped it from her face. It did not hurt, nor did it sting. Compare to nightsticks pounding on her body it was nothing.

When she felt her hands free she automatically tried to run. She stood and turned, hands reaching out at her. She punched, kicked, scratched, and even bit whoever touched her, ignoring the pain that ached when she moved. Someone's dark arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her off the floor, and she dug her nails into Rush's hands. He yelled out but did not drop her, his grip tightening instead.

A loud crack reached Eames' ears, and she stopped squirming. She snapped her head in the direction it came from, and she saw Stover with a long bull whip. He cracked it again, and Rush let her go, slinking into the shadows. Eames stood face to face with Stover, he with leather in hand and her with nothing but her fists and reflexes. The latter was deemed useless after a swift blow to her head, and she fell into her hands and knees. Stover took a step forward, and she lifted her head, locking eyes with him.

"If you dare—" she started.

The whip landed hard across her back, and she screamed, falling to the floor and rolling onto her back. She saw Herbert, Moss, and Rush each holding a nightstick.

"Shit."

---

Goren sat in the same vacant office, his eyes glued to the latest video of his partner being tortured. When she had been freed his hopes leapt in his chest, they rising as she fought back. It was the Eames he knew, and she was still there.

He heard her speak, her voice giving him confidence. Perhaps she would escape and get it caught on tape, but his logical side knew better than to believe that. When the whip cracked his hopes shattered, and another brutal beating began. It was horrible, the whip catching her in her face and the nightsticks catching her on her body. Her screams were amplified in his brain, and he could feel his internal balance being thwarted, and he felt himself leaning dangerously close to the perilous side of the fence. It was a nauseous experience.

Suddenly the beating stopped, Eames lying on the floor on her back, her clothes ripped and her face bleeding. A man stepped forward, approached her, reaching down and grabbing a fist-full of hair in his fingers, forcing her to sit up slightly. The three other men walked out of the shadows, their hands empty, though they were popping their knuckles and necks with much pleasure. Goren leaned forward in his seat and watched as his partner began shaking her head, the fear rolling off her body and through the screen, filling the office and officer with dread.

The man holding her chuckled, his eyes gleaming eagerly with a side-ways grin across his face as he brought a lighter from behind her. Her eyes darted from the men standing before her to the flame that erupted from the lighter, and she screamed out, trying to leap away from him but not succeeding as the orange glow started creeping towards her injured and bloodied face.

"_BOBBY!_"

_Alex!_

Her voice echoed in his head, the sound waves bouncing off his skull and intensifying the hatred that was threatening to undo the little control he still had. The scene cut to the God-forsaken puppet, who had introduced the video with a simple but crude statement. Goren's anger was boiling over as the puppet spoke again.

"_My, my. Naughty little partner you have there, detective. I wonder what it's like, wondering what happened next._"

Once the screen went blank, Goren could still hear Eames' screams in his ears, and in an act of rage he picked up the chair he had been sitting in and threw it at the television. It busted the screen and knocked it to the floor in shattered pieces. He stormed out of the squad room, all the detectives there watching him carefully as he hurried past, taking the stairs and not saying a word to anyone.

He heard the front door to One Police Plaza creak loudly as he kicked it open, his coat and scarf around him and his hands in his pockets. He felt the cigarettes and matchbook in his pocket, and he took out the pack and found him a cigarette, lighting it with the matchbook and returning the pack to his pocket.

Why were they doing this to her? Why, what did they want from him? Did they want him to beg for her? He was unsure, his mind detached from reality as he walked down the street. He was balancing on one leg atop his fence, his body leaning towards the side of the fence he did not want to go. There was no one on the other side to grab his ankle and steady him, no one to extend their hand to help him on the safe side; but perhaps that was what they wanted, him to fall and never get up.

Goren found himself wandering the streets of New York, his feet taking him somewhere without his mind knowing where to.

---

Deakins exited the cab late in the night, before him St. Patrick's Cathedral, where Detectives Davis and Argo said Goren was. He needed to talk to him about Eames. Another tape had come in, a tape no one had watched, and he needed to see if his detective was willing to view the contents with him. He walked into the sanctuary to find Goren sitting in the second to the last left pew, his head down and his hands in his lap. His hands were very still, an unusual trait, and his eyes were closed. Deakins walked to him, sitting on the left side of his detective, and quickly crossed his chest before he sighed.

"Goren." The tall man sat up, crossing across his chest and he opened his eyes.

"Sir." Goren's voice was very hollow and firm.

"We've got another tape—"

"I'm going after him," said Goren. Deakins was confused.

"Who?"

Goren folded his hands together. "I know who's behind this, sir. I know, and I'm going after him."

Deakins looked at his detective, understanding that he was going through a hard time. "Goren—"

"I'm not a cop tonight, sir," said Goren, laying his head on his knuckles, his elbows on his knees. Deakins did not know what to say about it, so he leaned forward and set his hands on the back of the pew in front of him. His eyes rose to meet the illuminated cross that lay before them.

"Are you asking for guidance?" he asked.

"No." Goren lifted his head and looked at the cross, his eyes full of such emotion the exact feeling he was experiencing was unreadable.

"Then why are you here?"

"I've come to ask for mercy."

Deakins did not follow. "For mercy?"

"The ability to show it tonight."

---

Eames could no longer take it. It had happened so frequently and so fast that it should not hurt so much, but this time something else was going to happen, something she could not prevent. She desperately wanted to stop it, her tears and aches begging for it to not happen. But they, it, was too much for her small body to handle. She could feel it rising under her skin, her flesh surrendering when her mind was screaming to stay strong.

It was almost upon her, and she bit her lip so hard she tore completely through the skin, her upper teeth grazing her lower ones. When it attacked her she cried out, and she felt a piece of her heart break. It hurt to hear. Like glass it splintered inside her and began tearing what was left. She did not feel them pick her up, bind her, gag her, and toss her into her corner. She felt like she did not exist anymore, her soul being separated from her body and leaving a damaged shell.

Afterwards she rested her head in the corner, silent tears falling down her face as she cried, her mind whispering for _him_ to find her.

---

Deakins and Goren shared a cab, which dropped Deakins off at his house first. As he was shutting the door he paused, his eyes falling on the detective. Goren handed him his badge, his hands unconventionally immobile.

"I'm not a cop tonight, sir," repeated Goren.

Deakins nodded. "I know. Bring her back."

He closed the door and stood in the light of the streetlamp as he watched the cab drive away. Thunder echoed omnisciently overhead, but no lightning was visible. As Deakins walked into his home, Goren's badge in his hand, he paused and reflected. Goren would bring Eames back, he knew it. And at the moment he did not care how he did.


	7. Interlude

Goren leapt out of the taxi before it had even driven up to the curb, landing hard and running fast towards the dark house where Eames was. He had done some of his own researching after he had obliterated the television back at One Police Plaza. He and Tyler had researched off the record.

According to Littman's father, the doctor-to-be had been receiving threatening messages for months before his death. Goren found those messages and read them all carefully, realizing that a character named Mike was blackmailing him. Littman had an incident on his record, and it could jeopardize his chances of becoming a certified doctor. He had knowingly helped a person commit suicide, euthanasia, and had covered it up. The bargain was that Littman was to bring Eames to Mike's place or that bit of damaging evidence would be brought to light. The letter even gave the address of where to take her, a boathouse along the Hudson and near where his body was found. The handwriting on these letters matched the writings on the notes Goren had been receiving.

Littman had been killed by a nine-millimeter handgun, it being found near where Littman's body was discovered. There were no prints, but ballistics confirmed it was the gun that killed the doctor. The serial number had been obliterated professionally, but after many painstaking hours the number had been recovered and sent through the system. It belonged to Joseph Livingston, along with a Beretta. Goren had recalled that the FBI agent carried his Beretta at his side. Livingston's Beretta was an older model, but it could get the job done.

Upon closer examination of Goren's cell phone records, Tyler had managed to find out who owned the phones making the text messages and calls to Goren's phone. It was a man named Michael Naderson, and all the phones had been purchased on the day they were used and discarded. Goren recalled that Livingston's middle initial was an M, but without confirmation he did not know if it was linked or not. Another CSU had ties with the FBI and managed to have Livingston's record faxed to the lab. The agent's middle name was Michael and listed as one of his aliases was Michael Naderson.

Goren had realized that every time he received a call or message Livingston was never present, only increasing his suspicions that Livingston was the head of Eames' abduction. He had remembered that Livingston licked his thumbs as he turned pages, as he had done while looking through a file. He had also used Eames' phone, and he and Tyler returned to the Major Case squad room to dust the phone and collect the files from her desk. After much sifting they found a wet stain of saliva on one of the papers, and they ran that against the DNA from Eames' hair. It was a match. One good print from the phone matched the unknown prints on the original message as well as the last letter Littman received from Mike. It was definitely Livingston.

Archie had cleaned up the videos and was able to pinpoint Eames' location using the images from the windows. From what had been gathered over many over-time hours she was indeed in Hell's Kitchen, more specifically the Bronx. This had been verified by the fact that St. Peter's Episcopal Church was visible from one window and Hutchinson River Parkway visible from the other. Archie had narrowed it down to the street but that was as close as he could get to her location. That was all Goren needed, his gut would tell him when he got there, and it did.

Goren did not know why Livingston was doing it, but he did not care any longer. He had taken his partner and hurt her, and that was all that was important.


	8. Lethal Weapon

Throwing open the door Goren drew his gun, carefully shutting the door with his foot. He strained his ears, listening for any sign of movement, and heard nothing. The house was old with the smell of mildew and moth balls hovering in the air, and the wood inside was grey with age. The wood underneath his large feet was soft, peeling as he steeped cautiously farther into the house. It was vintage, which reflected on most of Livingston's gun collection. He swallowed loudly as his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he spotted a set of worn stairs. He slowly walked to the stairs, setting his foot vigilantly on the first step and adding his weight. It did not creak, but he was not taking any chances. Army instincts kicked into high gear, and swiftly ascended the stairs, not making a sound.

There were only two rooms upstairs: a bathroom and a bedroom. Goren could see the bathroom from his position on the top stair. No one was there, and all that was there was a shower with no curtain and a toilet. He could hear snoring from the other room, and another noise reached his ears, crying.

Gritting his teeth he approached the bedroom, the door shut but not fully closed, a single thread of light emitting through the cracks around it. It produced a halo effect around the door. He could smell iron, leading him to suspect blood. Goren slowly raised his hand and placed it on the door, giving a little weight behind his hand. It moved, not making a sound, and the light fell across his face, illuminating one side of his face but leaving the other side in darkness.

"Come on in, detective," said a raspy voice. "You're not interrupting anything."

Goren pushed the door fully open and was met with a gruesome sight. Lying on the floor were the bodies of four men, the four felons hired to torture Eames. They were all shot execution style, their eyes open and their faces full of horror. Blood was pooled about their bodies, coagulating around their heads, and was beginning to smell of death and beginning decay.

Standing in the middle of the bodies was Livingston, in his hand a gun and in his arms Eames, who was bound with her own handcuffs with her hands in front of her. Her eyes were full of tears, some streaming down her face, and she met Goren's eyes.

"Drop the gun, detective," ordered the agent. When Goren did not comply he pointed the barrel of the gun at Eames' temple, and Goren slowly set the gun onto the floor. His eyes never left Eames', he trying to give her some assurance.

"How touching. I'm fighting the urge to cry," mocked Livingston.

Goren felt his anger morphing in his chest, curling under his soul and fusing with hate to form rage. But he had to keep control, for now, at least. Eames' eyes were soft but broken, as was her figure. She was physically beat. Sores, cuts, bruises, and burns covered her exposed skin, and her clothes were tattered from the whipping she had received. Goren could see her knees shaking, she being weak and unable to hold herself up. The only support she had was from Livingston's grip around her shoulders.

"You sick little bastard," growled Goren.

Livingston laughed "Thank you, I'll take that as a compliment. You know, this was fun."

"_Fun_?" rumbled Goren. How this was some lunatic's idea of fun Goren did not know, but he did not really care about it either. He heard a sound emit from Eames' throat, a whimpering sound. She was frightened and she needed him to keep control.

"Yes, fun. Ecstatic, actually. I was able to under-mind the greatest detective in New York State just by napping his little partner." The agent shook Eames viciously and smiled. Goren knew his partner was angered at the agent mocking her height, but he also knew that she did not have the strength to express it.

"I can see it now: the headlines," continued Livingston. "They'll be saying how sad it is that Detective First Grade Robert Goren was killed when he was caught by Special Agent Joseph Livingston of the FBI for kidnapped his own partner. It'll be great. I'll have to put it on the wall, along with all the other newspaper clippings I have at home."

Goren cocked his head at the agent. "Why?" he stammered, gritting his teeth.

"Why? Oh I _love_ this part of the job, when I get to tell you why I did this. Especially since I get to kill both of you, and the dead are very silent from what I hear…"

"_Answer the question_."

"YOU don't tell ME what to do!" shouted Livingston. He jabbed the gun into Eames' ribs, and she winced in pain, almost losing her footing. Goren fought the urge to reach out and catch her before she swayed, knowing that taking one step, making one single motion forward could result in her death. He knew there was no way he was going to make it if Eames died. He had barely been able to make it for these past few days.

"Please…" begged Goren. Livingston grinned, pulling the barrel from Eames' ribs. Goren's eyes remained focused on his partner.

"You're begging—this is great! I have the greatest detective _begging_! Oh, this is so good…" He stifled a laugh and hardened his look, staring straight at Goren. The detective looked from Eames to the agent, his eyes watery but full of hatred.

"Please."

Livingston's eyes narrowed, his mouth twisting into the most unnatural of grins. "Have you ever heard life referred to as a game, detective?"

Goren's expression did not change, but he nodded.

"Well, I go through life seeing it as a dancing game, because it is. It's one with many players and one with hidden agendas. You and I and everyone here in this room—alive or not—are players in this game. I played it my way and you played it yours. It just so happens that we crossed paths, but it takes two to tango, doesn't it? We've danced throughout this game, you and I, and now it's the closing move. The final twirl, final sway, the final stare, it's here. You were leading, but you succumbed to me, just like the dance steps go. And once we're done, you'll sit atop my mantle with all the other trophies I've collected throughout the competition. Only this time there's a special prize."

Eames closed her eyes and lowered her head, and Goren understood the agent clearly. This was just a game, like he said, but not in the way the man viewed it. Livingston saw this as a contest, one requiring luck and chance, an ultimate high. Goren saw this as a competition, one requiring skill and perception, an ultimate test. Livingston's path crossed his because the agent had wanted it to, but in crossing his path he crossed Eames' as well, though unintentional. Luck and Chance were the man's confidants. But Goren had the upper hand, for he was one up on his rival. He had Skill, Perception, and he also had Eames.

"And how many trophies have you collected?" queried Goren. He watched the corner of Livingston's mouth twitch.

"Plenty."

"And why do you collect?" The detective had to get into his opponent's head, and soon, if Eames was going to be safe. She was looking very pale, her body shaking ever so slightly, but he could see it clear as day.

"I collect so I understand what I'm doing. Isn't that why you collect?"

Goren was caught off-guard, but he shook his head softly. "I don't collect," he stated.

"Oh but you do." Livingston smirked. "I collect the physical, you collect the…psychological. You go after the bad guys, as do I, only I keep an actual piece of them. You, on the other hand, you take a piece of their sanity." He searched Goren's eyes. "I've been watching you for a long time, detective, a very long time. You helped me discover how to completely disable a person, and I thank you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I thank you dearly. You were the perfect specimen for my experiment, proving my hypothesis."

Interested slightly, Goren inquired, "And what was that?"

"That people are feeble and can be destroyed by the absence of a certain physical object which holds a powerful psychological attachment to the person's humanity and sanity. I found yours." Livingston brushed some of Eames' hair from her face, revealing eyes torn, empty, and calling. "She's a beautiful woman, no?"

"Fuck you," glowered Goren. Eames was most definitely his most important anchor to reality, and Livingston not only knew that but he exploited that as well. No one exploited Eames, not in Goren's mind.

"Interesting choice of words, detective. Tell me, what went through your mind after that last tape you saw, eh? You should have watched the last tape. She was a beauty, an absolute beauty," cooed Livingston. The agent bent over towards Eames, brushing his lips lightly across her cheek before throwing her body to the floor. She fell in a heap, too frail to catch herself.

Goren was tottering on the fence, his balancing failing to hold him, and he felt himself falling into the abyss he dreaded. Yet he could feel someone grab his foot, someone who was trying to pull him back in the other direction. It was Eames, her will wishing for him to come back, but she did not have enough strength to save him.

Rage exploded from Goren's chest, and he lunged at the armed agent, forgetting the fact that he was unarmed.

---

Eames did not move after her body hit the floor. Her muscles would not obey her commands of, _Get off this dirty floor and kick some ass_. She lifted her head and watched Goren's reaction.

Her partner had leapt towards Livingston, catching him in the jaw with a swift left hook. The agent twisted on his feet and performed two full spins before Goren delivered a right cross to his face. Eames heard a loud cracking sound as knuckle collided with cheekbone, and a shiver passed through her. Livingston knelt to the floor in defense as Goren gave a left jab, and the agent sent Goren in a tailspin of his own with a right uppercut.

He revolved once before he managed to stop himself, and that was when the shot exploded in the air, piercing Goren's chest just under his heart.

Eames expected Goren to freeze and feel where the bullet entered his flesh, seeing the blood running down his shirt. Instead he roared and charged again, delivering jab after cross and uppercut after hook relentlessly. It was a darker side of Goren she had never seen before, and she was not sure whether she should be frightened or relieved by it.

Livingston managed to shoot Goren again in the chest, but Goren either did not feel it or did not care enough about it, for he did not even slow his attack on the agent. The fighting continued as Eames forced herself to sit rather than lay on the floor. She watched her partner fight for her, bleed for her, while she could do nothing. A distant part of her mind told her that she had fought and bled for him long before he returned the favor, but thinking that was not adequate in the present situation. In fact it was completely absurd and evil to think. She felt dirty for even thinking that.

She was brought back to the current battle unfolding in front of her by the sound of another shot and a pain throbbing in her upper right arm. She yelled out as she grabbed her bleeding wound, the pain shearing down her arm as her cuffed hands moved dependently to one another. Blood was seeping through her fingers and a grinding noise reached her ears from inside her arm. She did not know it, but the bullet was dangerously close to her humerus and her ulnar nerve. Even the slightest wrong move could render her permanently defenseless.

Her eyes lifted to her partner and the agent before her. Both were not moving, their eyes on her. The agent's were daring to curl into a selfish grin, the barrel of the gun pointing at her. Goren's eyes were completely different. They were filling with tears as they followed the blood through her fingers and down her arm. Eames met his eyes, holding him in her gaze for a moment's time and ignoring the two bullets in his chest as he somehow remained standing, blood dripping from his shirt and to the floor.

Another shot rang out, and Eames jerked in pain as it entered her right calf. Her sudden movement drew her eyes from Goren, and he let a single tear run down his cheek before his body turned onto Livingston. He grabbed the agent by the neck with both hands and raised him off his feet. He began to choke the man, shaking him violently and threatening to snap his neck. Eames turned her face back to them and saw Livingston shoot her partner four times in the chest, but Goren only paused briefly after each bullet traveled through him. She watched his eyes narrow and his arms tense as he found the power to throw Livingston across the room.

Eames watched Livingston's body sail through the air, his body colliding with the wall and sending him into the bathroom next door. She was frozen in shock. It was not the fact that he crashed through that astounded her, but the fact that her partner had taken six shots to the chest and managed to throw their assailant. Goren turned slowly to her, blood tainting his lips, and he collapsed to the floor.

"No…" Eames could barely speak, for her body was exceptionally weak due to not eating, being tortured for the past two days, and the loss of blood. For once in her life she had been prepared to surrender to the force controlling her, but Goren had come to her, just like she willed him.

She crawled to him, her handcuffs and bullet injuries preventing her from traveling at a desirable pace. He coughed as she stopped beside his body, his chest rising and falling very weakly. His mouth moved as if he was trying to speak, but he made no sound. Tears that had clung to her eyes were now falling, rolling down her cheek and landing on the dusty floor.

"You're not supposed to be like this…" she whispered.

The sound of creaking and shifting boards reached her ears, and Eames turned to see Livingston rising from under the rubble. He was badly bruised and cut from Goren's fists, but it was nothing in comparison to what he had put them through. He grabbed Goren's gun and aimed it at the man's motionless body, cocking it. He was determined on his psychopathic will, on killing them, it not mattering who he killed.

Eames' mind was full of scenarios that could unfold with both her and Goren caught in a vulnerable position. It was not a question as to who the agent would attack, for regardless of which one of them he chose to kill he would be inflicting pain on both. They were connected on a more spiritual level, their souls intermingling in such a way neither of them could fully comprehend it.

A shot rang out, dust around her rising into the air as a bullet pierced the floor just before her knee. She immediately covered her partner's head and wounds, protecting him and ignoring her pain. Livingston let out a cackle as he shot at the floor again, this time hitting a floorboard near Goren's leg, tearing some of the fabric that made up his pants.

As the agent laughed again Eames' eyes found the Beretta Livingston had used to kill the four men who tortured her. She took it in her hand and lifted it off the floor, aiming it at the FBI agent. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, but she was going to make him pay for what he did to them.

_I'm not a cop tonight._

"Drop it," warned Eames. Her voice was shaky and hoarse, both uncharacteristic of her.

Livingston grinned, aiming the gun at her instead. "You won't shoot me."

Eames desperately wanted to put a bullet into the man's skull, but she did not have enough control of her body to achieve anything close to an injury or a threat of one. She felt so alone, even with Goren there beside her. He had come all this way to save her, suffered with her through it all, and yet she was not able to repay him for everything. Livingston took advantage of her short spell and took a few confident steps forward, the hollow sound of his shoes snapping her back to the ordeal unfolding before her.

She licked her lips as she tried to stay still, her subconscious willing for guidance. She felt a strong hand reach up and help her hold the gun steady. It completely covered hers, a single finger resting against her trigger finger.

"Drop it, asshole," repeated Eames, more firmly than before. She felt confidence beginning to swell inside her. "Do I need to clarify?"

The agent's grin widened. "I'm coming to collect my winnings."

The finger that had rubbed her knuckle curled around her trigger finger, though no pressure was applied on the weapon. Livingston took another step, and both hands on the Beretta stiffened.

"Or should I take my prize now?"

They both knew what he meant by his statement, and both were appalled enough to end it. Both fingers pulled back simultaneously, their action representing itself in the form of a single hole in between the eyes of Special Agent Joseph Michael Livingston. The shot went straight through the agent's head, exiting from the back and stopping in the tile of the bathroom wall. His body crumpled to the floor, his eyes open and his face one of denial. Blood was spattered and smeared on the walls, with bone and brain matter clinging to the building surrounding them.

He had lost the game.

The fingers loosened their grip around Eames' hands, and she heard Goren's arm fall to the floor with a dull thud. She let the warm metal in her hand fall and clattered loudly on the floor next to her, and she turned quickly but painfully to see his eyes fluttering. Her mouth fell as she adjusted her position and pulled his body painfully into her lap.

"No!" Her voice choked in her throat, but she forced herself to continue speaking. "Be strong, stay with me…"

Goren's eyes were open but his eyelids were heavy over his brown irises. Eames supported his head against her chest and petted his curly hair with her cuffed hands, taking care not to aggravate her arm and wishing desperately that she could stop the blood flowing from his wounds. It hurt her to see him like that, her tall and rugged partner lying broken in her lap. But he had come for her, he had taken six shots to the chest, and he was still clinging to life.

In the distance Eames could hear sirens, loud and piercing through the still November air.

"Listen, do you hear that? Sirens, they're coming…hang in there, please…oh God…"

Eames was crying, not loud sobs, but silent tears. It was times like those which showed her that silence was more dangerous that helpful. She wished that it was her lying with the bullets inside her, not him. Great men like him did not leave this world like that. He meant so much more. She could hear Goren cough, his breathing shallow and murky with blood, and he swallowed. Licking his lips, he closed his eyes, and his body went limp in her arms.

"No, no…you can't die…"

_You're not going to die!_

Her voice hardened into an ordering tone, piercing through her tears. "You can't die, you hear? You're not going to die, not like this. Don't you die on me, don't you dare. You're not going to die until I tell you, you understand? You're not going to die until I tell you to. Now stay with me. Men like you don't go out like this…"

Goren coughed, blood escaping his mouth and running down his face. Eames tried to wipe it off him with her sleeve, but she did not clean up very well with handcuffs on her wrists. Suddenly but slowly his eyes opened, and he looked at her.

"…Eames?" he said weakly.

"Yes?"

"Could you…in my coat pocket…the left one…"

Eames forced her hand away from him and reached into his coat, her small hands both fitting into his pocket, and her fingers closed around a pack of cigarettes and a match book. She pulled them out, taking out a cigarette, and went to place it in his mouth.

Goren shook his head slowly. "No, I want—" he swallowed, coughing as he did so "—I want you to…to throw those thing away…those things can kill you, you know…"

Eames grinned weakly, laughing silently as he closed his eyes and swallowed again. "And I won't…die till you tell me…"

---

Deakins and the squad cars arrived at the address Tyler told him. Someone had reported hearing gunshots in the rickety old house, and Deakins knew it was related to his detectives. He leapt from the car, dressed in grey sweat pants and a NYPD t-shirt, and raced into the house, calling out his detective's names. He heard Eames answer, and he ran into the upstairs room to find both of them in the middle of the room, surrounded by dead bodies. Goren's chest was riddled with holes, and he was bleeding badly; Eames had her share in injuries, but she smarted off to her captain, saying, "Nice of you to drop by, sir." The paramedics raced passed the captain as he felt some Supreme Being smile upon him.


	9. Promise

When Goren awoke the following Tuesday he was in a hospital bed, his body sore and oxygen under his nose, he felt eyes watching him. He looked to his left, seeing nothing but monitors. He looked to at the foot of his bed to see his chart sitting in the tray. His eyes cut to his right, where he saw his partner sitting in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs. She was awake but her head was lowered, her eyes preoccupied with her fingers as they wrung her hands. They were trembling. He sat up and reached out to her, his hand falling atop both of her own, and her head lifted to reveal sad eyes. Something was heavy on her conscience, something that was consuming her slowly.

"Hello," said Goren. His chest had a stiff twinge spike, but he ignored it. Eames managed to grin, but it was not as full of life as it should have been.

"Welcome back. The parade hasn't come by yet," said Eames. Her sarcasm was not the same, and Goren knew it; her voice was not the firm and defiant tone it usually was. He knew he should not press, but his mind was warning him that Eames needed him.

Goren gave her hands a small squeeze. "I don't need a parade."

"That's what I told them, but you know those rookies." Eames' eyes fell to the floor, her focus on something on her mind. Goren cocked his head, trying to make her look at him. Her eyes avoided his for a moment before glancing at him, and he flashed a boyish smile in hopes of lifting her spirits. She smiled, but her eyes were very empty.

"Eames?" Goren lightly shook her hands. "Are you okay?"

Eames bit her lip and brushed her hair out of her eyes. Her face had three deep cuts; two below her left eye and stretching from her nose to her cheekbones, and another rising from the bridge of her nose to above her left eyebrow. Her right eye was tainted with a healing black-eye, it being blue-green. Her lower lip had a cut and there were countless other healing scratches across her face. Her right forearm was in a cast from a fracture caused from the pipe-blow she received, but she was trying to hide it under her coat, along with the bandage over her bullet wound. She had a sling around her neck which her right arm was to rest in but it was hanging empty. Goren could only imagine the innumerable bruises and cuts she had, not to mention fractured ribs and light burns.

Eames lowered her gaze and pulled back her hands, wrapping herself in a hug with her left arm. Goren did not take his eyes off her.

"Eames?"

She forced herself to look at him before she began to cry.

Goren had never seen Eames cry before him, and the deep compassion he had for her ached in his heart. He shifted on his hospital bed and patted the bed next to him, offering her comfort. She at first made no move towards him, but he looked at her reassuringly. _I'm here_, he was telling her. She stood and approached his bed, sitting on it and then leaning into him, her head resting on his chest as he stroked her hair. He felt her take his free hand and hold it tight, a motion asking him for help. He knew it was a little proposal, but he also knew that a little can go a very long way.

Goren felt Eames take a deep breath and exhale, calling to him without uttering a single syllable.

"Yes?" he responded.

"Those guys…they…" she began. Her grip on his hand tightened, and he squeezed back, giving her the courage to continue.

"Deakins told me about the tapes when I gave him my statement. He said you were pretty pissed off." She was trying to approach her troubles from a different angle, telling her partner that whatever happened was something that would be heavy on her soul for a very long time.

"Yeah," replied Goren. "I busted a TV with a chair."

"I feel sorry for the TV," chuckled Eames. Goren grinned at her remark.

"I bet IAB is going to take this hard, the FBI too," he said. He felt Eames shudder suddenly, the shivers racing through her and channeling into him. Whether it was the mention of the FBI that made her shiver he was not sure, but he had a feeling that the entire incident with Livingston was replaying in her mind. He even figured that she had been seeing it in with her eyes open as well as closed, never being to escape its clutches fully.

"Eames?"

She gave a quaking breath, her body curling towards him and her hand tightening. Without looking at her face he knew she had closed her eyes.

"There was…they did…something…" She was trembling in his arms.

"You don't have to. I'll hear it from Deakins—"

"No!" Eames' body shook as she spoke, forcing the words through her teeth. Goren was unsure as it how he should approach her actions; if there was one person who could mask themselves from him, it was his partner.

She sighed. "I told Deakins I'd tell you," she said. Her voice was in an apologetic tone, saying she was sorry for snapping at him. He pulled her closer to him, his actions telling her he had forgiven her even before she apologized.

"Okay," replied Goren. He rested his chin on her head. She needed his full support, and he was willing to give it all and more. Eames was silent for a few moments, breathing slowly and adjusting her position against her partner's large and muscular frame much like a frightened child does against a parent when in need of comfort. Goren said nothing, giving her the space she needed to tell him what she needed or wanted to tell him. He was unsure if she needed to tell him or just wanted to, but regardless he knew she was determined to let him know.

Eames lifted her head and looked him in the eye, the sparks that usually resided in them dull. "After the…the third tape…on the fourth one…they…all of them, they…" She paused and took a deep but shaky breath.

"They…they all…they raped me…I…God…" Eames began to cry again, her small frame quivering against him, and she lowered her head into his chest. Goren pulled her into him and rocked her gently, quietly shushing her. It had taken a lot of trust for her to say that to him, and he respected that.

"Hey, now," he whispered. "It's okay."

"No, no it's not." Goren ceased the rocking, and Eames turned her body so she could face him, tears streaking her cheeks and filling her eyes.

Goren realized that a part of Eames had shattered when those men raped her. She was not the same person any longer, she was not the same strong force that steadying him as he wobbled on the picket fence. He had safely arrived on the right side of his fence, and it was now Eames atop a fence of her own, her balance wavering. She needed him to spot her, to catch her as she fell, just like she did for him. She needed him now more than ever, and he would be there.

Eames lowered her eyes and curled into a tight ball, not taking up a lot of space in Goren's narrow hospital bed. He leaned forward and kissed her on her forehead, the first kiss he had ever given her. Her head lifted, and her eyes met his.

"Alex—"

"No, Bobby. I can't…"

"Yes, yes, you can. I'll help you. We'll get through this together, I promise."

_I promise._

He squeezed her hand and pulled her into his body, her head leaning into his shoulder and her arm gripping him around his neck. He stroked her hair as he held her close to him, feeling her muscles relax as her body stopped shaking. Soon she had fallen asleep in his embrace, and not having the heart to wake her he too felt his eyelids drooping as he gave in to sleep. Goren promised, and he meant it. Eames needed him to spot her, and that was exactly what he would do. He would do anything for her, absolutely anything.

---

Promises have many different levels, varying from those which are completely false to those which are set in stone. But this promise was of a completely different genre, one that was everlasting and set in the soul. Stone erodes and smoothens, taking the promise set inside with it. A soul could crack under enough pressure and detach itself from a person, encrypting the promise for forever more. Both are equally as flawed, yet were not equal entities.

Goren's soul was not invincible, for he was only as human as the next man, and his own soul had been repeatedly ripped from him and hastily replaced by a psychopathic individual. Eames' soul was tattered and threatening to fade from existence altogether, it being repeatedly broken and forced to remain intact by the same evil creature. Yet a soul is a special, powerful, and spiritual level of a person's psyche. Two damaged souls could repair each other of given the chance to morph into one.

Eames had been seized from a grey reality, dragged through a gate, and promptly locked inside. Goren had traveled through a complex maze and had come across a barrier at the finish, where on the other side his partner was calling to him. These two souls were already mingled beyond the point of no return, the restoration of souls beginning upon the very sight of each other.

Once he had leapt over that white picket fence.

---

Captain James Deakins walked into the large building commonly known as One Police Plaza around eight on a cool Friday morning. It was a light November day, the breeze letting the fallen leaves dance around on sidewalks, and to him it was a most beautiful day indeed. As he entered the building he knew what lay in store for him once he reached his office on the eleventh floor. He approached the elevator and was joined by another three people, all of which were in a deep conversation with each other, and as he hit the eleventh floor button one of them hit the eight floor button.

It was only one stop, no big deal; Deakins' mind was filled with other more important things that the current FBI investigation into the death of one of its members. It did not matter to him that this death had occurred on his watch, or that he had been killed with his own gun. It was definitely unimportant. He glanced at his watch, the time being three till eight o'clock. The elevator stopped temporarily on the eight floor, and the three men exiting the lift as they continued their conversation about the corrupt government system.

The doors closed and the remainder of the captain's trip was made in silence, his eyes watching the digital sign above the doors change as he approached the eleventh floor. The doors opened and he stepped out, his eyes falling onto two empty desks, both covered with Gavin Hatcher's files. But those could wait until tomorrow, or even next week. They were not coming in today anyway. There was no rush.

He walked to his office and opened the door to see Carver and another man waiting on him. The unknown character was tall and thin, with awkwardly broad shoulders and a rectangular head. There was no hair on his head except the goatee that decorated his mouth. His small and very close eyes were very dark, and he folded his arms as his gaze fell onto the captain.

"Captain, this is Special Agent Harmon Wilson," said Carver.

Deakins sat at his desk, nodding to the agent as he picked up his pen. "Morning." His eyes focused on the papers before him, and he ignored the agent's and the lawyer's presences. The agent decided to press.

"Sir, I'm here—"

"I know why you're here, Wilson, but I'm a bit busy here, at the moment. You can go, now," ordered Deakins, his eyes never leaving the page. The agent looked at the prosecutor before leaving the captain's office, slamming the door loudly as he left. Carver turned his head to look at Deakins, who was placing his glasses on his nose.

"You know that won't be that last time we see him," warned Carver.

Deakins looked at the prosecutor over the rim of his glasses. "Pardon my French, but I don't give a damn."

* * *

**Disclaimer:**  
The preceding story was fictional. No actual person or event was depicted. 

**Author's Message:**  
I thank all of you who have read this. I hope this piece has been as thrilling to read as it was for me to compose. I bid you happy future readings.


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